Whumptober 2019- Tear Stained
by Frankie McStein
Summary: Then the comm line crackled, the operation was on, and he stepped forward. And fell.


Magnum resisted the urge to rub at his face, forced himself to ignore the way the salt water burned his eyes and made his vision blur. The mission was too important for him to screw up by letting his attention slip. Three American hostages in a hostile environment, unfriendlies with itchy trigger fingers surrounding their location, and the other members of his team depending on him to keep his head in the game. He focused on keeping his head down and moving forward at a steady pace through the waves.

Even when he reached his position, he didn't give in to the temptation to raise his hand to his eyes. Just stood, shoulder-deep in the ocean, waiting for the signal to go. An odd pain was building in his shoulders; he pushed it to the back of his mind. His legs were starting to feel bizarrely numb; he locked his knees. Then the comm line crackled, the operation was on, and he stepped forward. And fell.

And kept on falling. Deeper. Deeper still. He fought to drop the rifle, to kick his legs, to do _anything _that would help.

The light around him was turning green as he struggled to regain the surface, but how was that possible when he was just shoulder-deep? His lungs were burning, a fierce, red hot pain that spread along his veins and nerves, but surely he had only just slipped beneath the surface a second or two ago? His pack was weighing him down and making him sink faster and faster, but he couldn't actually remember shouldering his pack before leaving the boat. In fact, now that it occurred to him, he couldn't remember leaving the boat.

The same second that Magnum realized he was having a nightmare, he came awake with a scream bubbling in his throat that was lost to a desperate gasping as his lungs strained for the air they'd been denied in his subconscious. It took longer to recover than it should have, a coughing fit making his chest ache all over again and setting off a spinning in his head that had nothing to do with the beer he'd finished before slumping on the couch.

He forced himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom. He was drenched in sweat, his t-shirt sticking to his entire torso, no doubt the reason behind his ocean-based dream. He shivered as the cold water hit his too-warm skin, tugging off the damp shirt and letting it fall to the floor. His hands gripped the edge of the sink tightly as he tried to talk himself into taking slow, deep, controlled breaths. Some small, twisted part of his brain snorted and made a mental note to send a thank you email to the therapist that had been foisted on him after the Korengal. After all, he was embracing the coping techniques she'd kept pushing. The rest of his brain focused on the slow counting, refusing to dwell on water and weight and panic.

Once he finally felt like he caught his breath, something that took far longer than it should have, Magnum finally let go of the sink and made his slow way to his bedroom. Dropping down to the wonderfully soft mattress, he rubbed his face, half-thinking he should grab what was left of his six pack and half-not-caring if he ever swallowed anything ever again. His body solved the problem by simply slumping sideways.

As his eyes slid closed again, he actually found himself hoping he was going to find himself caught in another mission-based dream. If he was going to have nightmares, then fine, but one based on his missions as a SEAL was a reprieve compared to the images of the POW camp that usually haunted him on bad nights. Of course, Magnum was not the luckiest of men so, when his heart rate slowed and he actually fell asleep, he found himself in that damned solitary confinement cell.

He sat up slowly, blinking in the total blackness that seemed to weigh him down. Something felt off, and he reached instinctively for his sidearm before remembering it had been taken…how many days back? He tried to figure out how long it had been since the four of them had been captured, but there was something else in his mind. Something buried deep but scratching to get out. He tried to focus, but his mind seemed to have been wrapped in cotton wool. It was the first soft thing he had felt since being captured, and he sort of wanted to sink his consciousness into it, but the other thing, whatever it was, was getting more and more insistent, and it broke over him like a wave.

T.C. had been stabbed the day before. That was why he was in this cell again, punishment for charging at the guard who had laughed as he'd driven the dull blade deep into T.C.'s side. Magnum almost whimpered as he relived the moment when T.C.'s eyes had rolled slightly before his body crumpled. Three other guards had already dragged Magnum out of the cramped cell and held him in the center of the room, letting him watch as Rick and Nuzo tried desperately to stop the bleeding. Nuzo was pressing down so hard that Magnum could see the muscles in his arms bunching, but T.C. didn't so much as groan. Rick was calling something, yelling at the guards, but they…

That's not how it happened. Magnum half-woke as the thought intruded on the nightmare. T.C. had barely bled, the wound a superficial scratch. He had dodged the blade and then, before the guard could try again, Magnum had made a break for it. There was no chance of him actually getting away, of course, but it had pulled everyone's attention away from T.C. and Magnum had heard all three of his friends calling after him as he'd been dragged to the solitary confinement cell.

"'s not how it went,' Magnum muttered to himself, trying to dispel the image of T.C. sprawled on the filthy ground, a pool of blood growing beneath him. He tried to forget the smell of the blood that seemed, impossibly, to be lingering in his nose and was making his stomach churn. His mind was screaming at him that T.C. had died that day, that he'd never made it home, and the image rose up again as Magnum somehow drifted back off to sleep.

He lay in his bed and sobbed as the pain of losing his friend swamped him, sending his subconscious spiralling. He knew it wasn't a memory, that his mind, his sick sadistic mind, was torturing him for whatever reason, but he couldn't make it end. His entire world had shrunk down to the all-encompassing pain inside him. Nothing else existed.

This time, although he knew he was having another nightmare, Magnum couldn't wake himself up. It took him falling off the bed and crashing to the floor to shake him awake, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the sweat. He felt a surge of anger, although he wasn't sure exactly who or what he was angry at (himself? Hannah? Her father? All of the above? None of the above?) and pushed himself to his feet in a violent explosion of movement.

His vision blurred and, seconds later, he was on the floor again, on his knees, his body arching and shaking as his stomach twisted itself inside out. His head was spinning and his chest was burning, and he thought something was throbbing, and he felt like he was somehow simultaneously drowning and being burned alive. He thought there was a voice in his ear, and he strained to make out the words even as his traitorous brain whispered that there was nothing to hear.

It took less than a minute for Magnum to collapse back to the floor, utterly exhausted, consciousness spiralling down again. The sweat on his skin dried as his fever rose, the minute tremors that he had dismissed as a side effect of too much alcohol and junk food and not enough sleep became trembling which, in turn, became shivers, forceful enough to shake the bottle of painkillers on the table he was up against.

In the morning, worried by the silence that, not so long back, she would have enjoyed, Higgins would go looking for Magnum. She would find him sprawled on his bedroom floor, a small puddle of bile next to him. His face would still be tear-stained, dotted with sweat, and far paler than it should be. She would gently pat his cheek and quietly call his name, rousing him enough for him to tell her how awful he felt. She would help him back to bed and quickly clean the floor before calling the doctor and demanding, politely, of course, that she make a house call.

She would call Rick and T.C., and the three of them would sit with Magnum, talking him down when the memories and fever dreams grew too much for him to handle. They would manage to get him to drink, wipe his face and chest down with soft flannels dipped in cool water. And, by the end of the day, he would be sleeping peacefully.

But, for now, while it was dark outside and everyone else slept, Magnum was alone with his dreams and the tears they caused.


End file.
